Crow Bait

Sixty-two

Just outside Reno, Nevada

Lancaster had checked the ranch out in the daylight. It had a lot of hands, but at this time of night they were all in the bunkhouse. He had left Crow Bait in a stand of trees a few hundred yards away and come the rest of the way on foot.

He would like to have observed the place longer, but he didn’t have the time. He didn’t want to hang around Reno too long. Word might get back to the ranch. No, he had to go in tonight.

He worked his way to the back of the house without being seen and found a door that led to the kitchen. In daylight he’d been able to see that the house was a two-story Colonial with white columns in front, based on the mansions of the Deep South. A man with a house like this had to have servants—a cook, a maid, probably a manservant of some kind. He also might have had a wife and some children. But at the moment the kitchen looked dark and deserted.

He tried the door and found it locked, but with a little pressure from his shoulder it gave and he was in.

Once inside, he drew his gun and moved to the doorway. It led to a dining room, also dark and empty. He had chosen to hit the house at two A.M., feeling that any family would be asleep.

He moved across the dining room to the entry hall, and noticed that there was a light burning on the first floor of the house, at the end of a hall.

He looked upstairs, at the darkness there. Upstairs, family members might have been asleep in their beds, including the man he was looking for. But he decided to check the light out first.

As quietly as he could he moved across the hardwood floor to the hallway, toward the room with the light. It was probably the rancher’s office. If that was the case, then his search was over.

He stepped into the doorway, pointing his gun into the room. The figure behind the desk looked up at him in surprise.

“Who are you?” the girl asked.

“I could ask you the same thing.”

“But I live here,” she said. “You don’t.”

“Good point.”

He looked back up the hallway, then stepped into the room, holding his gun down at his side.

“What’s your name?” he asked.

“Angie,” she said. “What’s yours?”

“Lancaster. How old are you, Angie?”

“I’m fourteen, so don’t go thinkin’ I’m just a kid.”

“I wouldn’t do that,” Lancaster said.

“Are you here to steal?” she asked.

“No.”

“Then what are you doin’ in my house?”

“I’m looking for a man named Roger Simon. Do you know him?”

“Of course,” she said. “He’s my father. He’s upstairs asleep.”

“With your mother?”

“No,” she said. “My mother’s dead.”

“Oh, I’m sorry. How did it happen?”

“A man killed her,” she said.

“When did that happen?”

“Last year. Are you here to hurt my dad?”

“No, Angie,” he said. “I’m here to talk to him. Why don’t you go up and tell him I’m here?”

“He’ll be mad that I was in his office.”

“Honey,” Lancaster said, “I guarantee you he won’t be mad.”